


Broken Silence

by girlofthemirror



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Happy Ending, Self-Harm, teenage angst, very old fic, written in 2003
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5986306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlofthemirror/pseuds/girlofthemirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ginny feels broken and Pansy is silent.</p><p>I wrote this when I was 18, in 2003. I am keeping my original notes, in a lot of ways this is my own little slice of fandom history - I do hope I am not embarrassed by it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Silence

**Author's Note:**

> These are the original notes from 2003 (do note how obsessed we all were with "disclaimers". Also, why on earth would anyone feel the need to warn for femslash (because it was gay... I honestly can't remember)?
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> _Title: Broken Silence_  
>  Author: Katy  
> Rating: PG13, nothing really happens that is high rated, it is just a bit dark  
> Pairing: Ginny/Pansy  
> Warnings: Dark, suicide and femslash. Gosh that is a hell of a lot of warnings for my first fic.. What ever happened to me being a 'nice girl'? What would my mother say now!  
> Disclaimer: If you are under the misapprehension that this could possibly be mine then you are not only wrong but extremely misguided.  
> Author's Notes: As I said, this is my first ever finished fic. So I am a tad nervous.
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> _I need to give my undying thanks to Enismirdal for her wonderful expertise, she managed to correct my grammar, point out when I wasn't making any sense, make me actually write this and then actually let it out to annoy all you lot with! Not only that, but she also kisses me lots (so under- rated darling!) and eats Bailey's ice-cream with me when I feel sad.. So lots and lots of kisses for you, not like I wasn't going to kiss you anyway. but there we go. Can never kiss too much, that's my philosophy. Thanks sweetie_

**Broken**

 

She was broken goods, defiled and ruined before she ever had the chance to be something real. Written out as a little damaged thing that was there purely as someone to pity. Ginny Weasley did not think highly of pity. But damaged, she could identify with that. Even now after all these years she always saw it, there and vivid in her mind's eye; the image of a beautiful young and clear boy as he drained her soul and bled her heart. For Ginny was quite sure that it was at that very moment that her heart had become dry, hard and quite dead. Not that she minded; she lived without a heart quite well, she thought. But in the night, in the infinite stretches of black, she bled all over again, on her sheets, silently, with a sharp knife, or after she had learnt that especially useful and quite dark spell with only her wand to guide her.

 

That summer had in its own way been worse than the event itself; that was what Ginny thought, in her most cynical moments, would send her to therapy for life. To be a Weasley was defining, the hair, the infernal happiness of it all. It suffocated her, enveloped her and refused to let her breathe. The fuss of her mother, the gentle concern of her father, and the rough, ill expressed and vague assertions as to whether she was OK from her brothers; they were all, Ginny knew, a way to cover their disgust for their sweet and innocent little daughter, now scared and dirtied by all that blackness. And in a way they was right, she was blackened by it all; her soul was never as blank and carefree as before.

 

She allowed what was left to rot, cutting her losses at only twelve; she already understood that, in her world, she couldn't go on and care with a continual and juvenile trust that her brothers had in 'light', in 'good', in Dumbledore and his 'Order'. The night then became in her eyes a time of only two purposes, that of blood, and that of dark. For the dark was fascinating. It all depended on what you were prepared to give, calculated risks. Allowing her to take advantage of the magic in her blood in her body and what was left of her already tattered soul.

 

It is amazing, she would hear her mother comment to some nameless friend over tea, how my little Ginny has come out of that terrible business in her first year quite unscathed. Ginny would only dig the knife in deeper covering the scars with one of the first less-than-blameless charms that she had ever mastered. After all, masking the truth could never be a pure intent. Ginny, however, knew that it was in fact the only thing to do. Her happy, bright family could never understand the ruin that had fallen on their daughter. Her strength and growing power would be viewed as nothing of the sort. She would be punished and mistrusted and they would mourn her loss of innocence all over again. No, it was better for all that it was this way.

 

**The Watcher**

 

I remember the first day that I ever asked mother to explain. I was about seven, I should imagine. It was, as far as I can recall, my first ever question of note; my first that contained anything of more substance than the contents of the next meal. What I asked was in actual fact very unimportant. Well, it was an important question in its own way, but it wasn't the fact that I asked this one question over any other that mattered; the whole incident was, when you look at it objectively, entirely insignificant. But to me, it changed the world. That was the difference you see - I said that it was important, a turning point, a milestone - so it was. Her response taught me that these were not the sort of queries that should ever be uttered. Or I am sure in her pretty head never even considered.

 

I was spoilt, I was never shouted at, and if I persisted in wanting something for about a week, I would always get it. I lived in a beautiful house in Bath, on the Crescent, hidden from Muggles in a simple yet ingenious fashion: that it wasn't at all hidden. It stood in entirely plain view, for everyone to see. I always thought that it was the most elegant method of hiding; I still do, in a way. I have no excuse for myself, I have no one to blame. My fall from grace is entirely my own and I am proud of it.

 

It started as I have said when I asked without a trace of what was to come; why was it that we followed a Lord who was defeated by a baby? My mother, who hated to scowl, such an ugly expression she always said, allowed a look of displeasure to flick across her face. That was all, and then she tuned and walked out of the room. I felt immediately a sense of foreboding; not fear, not actual terror, just unease, knowing that nothing was right, that at that instant it may never be right again.

 

The next week I was given my first lesson in becoming what my parents were. Given a book and told to read it, told that it would answer my questions. Told that it was an exciting secret, even more important than the fact that we were more special than Muggles , even greater than the fact that we lived among them. I was told that I would never ask questions again once I had read this book, told it was an honour to be given it this young. Told everything in fact; I hated being told, not being allowed to question, and I realised then that questioning was not expected.

 

The Story of Our Lord, it sounds amazingly like it should be the title of some ridiculous religious work of some cult or other. And in its way, it was. It was clearly written to impress. Bound in leather, it was large and heavy. Written in language that made me think it was truly ancient, and to almost laugh when I found out years later that it couldn't have been written more than a decade ago. So I read it, and knew immediately that I couldn't have anything to do with it.

 

Have you ever had to keep a secret? Knowing something so vital that to even think it too often could cause death. Have you ever lived under thunder clouds that seem to threaten to descend at any moment? Hiding something that is so central to your very identity that not to express it feels like the worst kind of treason.

 

I realise that I sound like a pretentious wanker, well apart from the fact that I don't have the anatomy, but at that time that is what it felt like. As if I would burst from having not to tell a soul. From the age of seven I was a stranger, an alien in my own home. I read the book, the whole vile mess of it, and I felt disgusted. I don't know why. Maybe you need pain in your life to identify with the dark. Maybe it is only revenge or hate that can drive you to do that. I have to say I don't know. But whatever it was, I didn't have it.

 

I knew that I was different, and I hated it, with a passion that I had never felt before. I couldn't cope and I didn't know how to live with myself. I had no role models and no grounding. I was so lonely. I learnt though. I grew to love hiding; it became part of my identity. Apart from what was hidden I had nothing, I was terrible at what my parents tried to teach me, nothing special at school and my friends were there but only as a recurring theme in my life. Nothing life altering. People viewed Slytherins as evil, but though quite a few of us had parents who were death eaters and quite a few of us were destined to join them, it was still hardly a topic of polite conversation.

 

So I lived in secret and thought in secret and dreamed in secret. Never sharing becoming more and more hidden until I could not even remember what I had been like to be free. And while my housemates silently learnt the dark arts and ransomed their soles I watched and couldn't turn away. Knowing that it was just as wrong to watch and do nothing as it was to do it yourself. Hating that which I had become, hating what they wanted to be. So I watched, silently, never taking part, always watching. Until it became my obsession. I was the ghost of Slytherin, and they never knew it. It was all I had to take pride in; I failed my parents and my school. I was never brave enough to report them to stop it; I just sat silently and watched.

 

**Sacrifice**

 

Ginny searched, she did not know what it was that she looked for, not a cure; she knew she was too far gone for that. She didn't want revenge, she understood that it was unnecessary, the very fact she could exist was her revenge. She did not hunt for a weapon, well, not for one that would work against anyone else other than herself. She hunted with a fervour approaching insanity; she had to have something to live for, other than the vague sense of guilt that kept her hidden. Sleep, she realised, was only required by the weak. It could be exchanged for other things; of course it was an exchange both ways. It took power to keep her going, but it took power to stop with her knife too. Power she had.

 

At night then the dark ruled; this was, Ginny reasoned, the time it should rule. The nightmares of the innocent, feeding it as though it were some unnamed, ancient being, which was, she discovered, not so very far from the truth. She found that this was where her talent lay, she was entirely unremarkable in every other way, but here she could have been amazing. Hogwarts was now to her fraught with danger, the danger of discovery and expulsion; it provided her with the thrills that others got in foolish, childish pursuits. She lived her life well, she could control it. This was what in essence she was searching for, control. Not power, that was the lure of the weak. She read ancient texts and learnt new languages; she absorbed them all, and sometimes an attentive observer would have seen the sparks of power as she grew in strength.

 

Hatred ran through her veins of what she did not know, but it grew and ate her from the inside out. Her path began to open out in front of her, her knife began to dig deeper and she began to understand. She could no longer love, of that she was sure, but she could remember the idea of it and that was what drove her. That is why she knew that control was not the ultimate, why she did not want to become another Lord to rise above them all. That was why she realised that she was all there was left. Her clarity could not be seen by the others, they were blinded by their petty lives. Ginny had determination. She saw that the only way to fight the dark was not to outshine it with a paltry and pathetic glimmer of light; even though that was far more poetic, she knew and she understood.

 

Sacrifice. That was what it was about; you could not get anything for nothing, and she knew now what she had to do. She was too damaged to succeed, the rot had set in, and she could feel it creeping, advancing and corrupting her. Taking her and making her into something that she was not. She would give all that she had left, that was the only way left to make amends. She was wrong and dark inside, and this would be her saving grace. The pain in her could no longer be contained blood was becoming her waking, dreaming life. But after all this she would sacrifice for the ultimate of outcomes. When he had been young and happy, before her heart had been destroyed, she remembered, though she could no longer recall the actual emotion that she had loved in an innocent and real way. And he was unaware that he would in the end die, and would be sacrificed. So the only alternative was for her to sacrifice herself.

 

The pain of existing was too great, she had tried and she was failing; so as not to fall she was paying higher and higher prices. The effort to live became a need to die, a physical need. It enveloped her and consumed all her strength; some nights she could not breathe. Her lungs would hold themselves closed in a desperate search for peace. Ginny had not cried since it all began, but now with this all-encompassing ache she could not hold back the heave of her chest as she struggled against tears she could not shed. There was no way she could continue; her mask was slipping.

 

**Nearly**

 

I watched and I saw, I saw that nearly half the Slytherins exchanged their sleep for knowledge, as did Ravenclaws, Griffindors and Hufflepuffs. It was not purely a pastime for the serpents. Though they were though mostly the elder members of my own house. I could see them bartering away their innocence for more pain. Their strength was so much lower than they thought and the price was too high, their souls withered and their power grew, but their power was not what they believed it to be. They studied with diligence that spoke of their incomprehension. Many, I knew, only learnt as instructed. Some had a natural talent or a desire for something that drove them to learn to give them power or revenge, but still I could see that what drove them was not enough.

 

They paid a price though, and I could see that. The pain was hideous; they caused pain and they felt it, every night. And I watched transfixed. It was so wrong in every way. I wanted to stop them, but I was no brave, reckless lion; I could not, I just watched. As I watched, I learnt, I was not stupid. But I learnt the price too, I could see it. They spent their blood on something that they did not understand. How could they? I almost pitied the stupid fools, they would never be a powerful dark force as they all wished in their warped and shadow filled dreams. They were children who did not even realise what it was that they lost.

 

I was more scared, though, of one, than of all the others. She was hidden from them all, they could not see her, she could melt into the background until there was just a shimmer in the air. I watched though and I learnt to see; it is hard to hide from the truth. And that was my only weapon against it - that I did not participate, it owned nothing of me.

 

I could not understand her, she had no one forcing her into this, no aims to rule; I could see that. She was powerful, I could see it on her, radiating and growing, she did not seem to care for the price, she did not mourn the loss of herself: she relished it. I saw her die, slowly. Her life withering, her soul decayed. She had been damaged before I ever saw her I think, but the pain that I saw in her was even greater than that which she inflicted on herself. The dark could do nothing, it seemed, that she did not do already. I knew of course what started this; it was the gossip of the common room for months.

 

I began, though, to fear for her. She gained new purpose and new strength; I could see her preparing, for something more powerful than I had ever seen before. I saw her resolve strengthen and I was afraid. Then one day I saw her with her shoulders heaving, I thought she must have been running, though what could scare her any more was beyond me. But then what I saw was much worse than that. I heard her sob; a heart wrenching sound, no tears fell. After that, I continued to watch with more interest than before. She looked now, but she seemed to have an aim in mind. Pain flowed off her, I could see it. She stopped properly hiding the scars that covered her pretty arms; I could see them now, if I looked carefully. And looking closely was something I was good at.

 

One night, she came down dressed in white, rather than school robes. I knew immediately what it was she had come to do. Just because I refused to participate did not mean I was ignorant. Tears flowed then, mine, and for the first time, hers as well. And as they began to gather and spill I saw her as just a girl, not the terrible thing she was becoming or the pain she would inflict willingly on herself. I saw, and it was killing me as well. Her pain and hatred were tangible, but there was fear there too. I had watched; I knew better than she did that she was not of the dark. And as I saw her there I couldn't let her continue. I could no longer just be a watcher; I could not let this happen, this would make me worse than them. I could not sit by any longer. I knew that this was the moment that I had to prove to myself that I had not rejected my life for nothing. She took up her wand and muttered a spell, of words so twisted that it made me shiver just to hear them, then she passed her wand over her left wrist. Her blood flowed crimson over her white clothes, like her hair and I could not let it continue. I couldn't see her do this. So I stepped forward letting myself be seen for the first time in my life and said,

 

"It doesn't have to be like this"

 

**The End**

 

"It doesn't have to be like this"

 

When my Pansy first said that to me I hated her, for an instant, nearly as much as I hated myself. I had made a decision, and I was bleeding, I would die and it would all be over. I would not even die in vain, I would save them all, my blood, my wronged soul would save them and I would be released. But as she said that it suddenly crashed down on me, like a storm finally breaking overhead, just how alone I was. I made to retreat, to draw my power around myself and be alone again to complete my end. But I just couldn't do it. The power that I had spent all those years amassing hit me, hard. For the first time; I felt the weight of what I had become and could no longer stand up to the strain. I just could not be anymore, I was tired, living was too awful to countenance but death too tiring to execute. So I collapsed. I cried. I can still feel that emotion the unstoppable shaking, I cried and was myself again, a girl of sixteen who was being crushed under a power she could scarcely control.

 

Endings, or for that matter beginnings, are never as neat and easy as they seem, and I was not able to cry my healing tears and escape as a new and healed person. It wasn't a case of her saying that and me being freed. I was part way through a spell designed to kill me and I fell apart, midway between life and death, I had to stop the blood. I can remember that moment more clearly than the all years before, it was so painful, but rather than the numbing deadening pain of the hatred that had gone before, I felt alive. It was a pain that served to remind me that I did exist, that I was real.

 

But all I could do was cry; I wanted never to have to stop; I wanted my mum to come and look after me. I was alone, in all the world I had no friends, I had hidden myself so totally from my family that I could no longer even feel their presence. Pansy, seeing me cry, looked terrified; I could tell that she could understand the power of the spell. I was going to die now anyway, it was useless to fight it; I had opened my veins to deep. Regardless, this was the end.

 

Then she did something that I would never have expected from her, she stepped forward and took my wand out of my unresisting fingers, she looked at it for a moment, I could see her making the decision. The fear balancing the light which shone out of her. The light won; just. I could see that it was taking all her resolve, my eyes felt cloudy. My arm grew heavy; my body was cold, terribly cold, but simultaneously so far away that I could only just feel it. Through the water in front of me, I saw her drag my wand along her own wrist and her face twist at the pain. She grabbed my hand, palms together. And then I knew what she was trying to do. I tried to shout out to her to tell her that it was foolish, that she didn't have the power. She screamed out, and I could hardly bear it, but I could do nothing, I could not even release her hand; I was slipping.

 

**Beginning**

 

Pansy felt the light hit her. She tried to open her eyes, but all she could see was red, blood red everywhere. She blinked, her right arm felt trapped, so bringing her left up to her face she wiped her eyes. She felt terrible; she could not ever remember a feeling quite like this. She felt drained and used. She felt rather than saw the small movement of something, someone next to her. And the night before flooded back to her.

 

They were covered in blood, more than you could ever think would allow them to live. Ginny was unconscious, but her hand was still clutching Pansy's in a vicelike grip. Beside the older girl Ginny stirred, her body tensed, and Pansy could see her chest heave a little, and on the face that looked too young to have seen so much dark she saw a single tear. Ginny's eyes blinked open, and another tear fell. Looking at her, it felt the most natural thing in the world to reach forward, tentatively, and to wipe it away. Their tears fell, their faces so close in the way that they lay, still the heap that they had fallen into, that not even an attentive observer could separate them. And it felt like the most natural thing in the world to move just a half an inch so that their lips touched. They didn't quite kiss, they were too tired to move, but they cried together. Two girls who didn't cry, who couldn't cry, lay on the floor and cried and were not alone.

 

**Now**

 

Sometimes I need to get out. She always understands; still a little dark, I feel the need to be free. And she lets me out. Sometimes she needs to be alone and to watch, and I understand, and we let each other be. Sometimes we need to remember that we are alive and then we remind each other. Simple, in the most complex way I have ever seen.

 

Nothing is perfect; I learnt that when I was twelve, but now I have decided that perfect is overrated anyway. I still feel the appeal of the dark and fall, sometimes, and make mistakes, but she is always there. And we both still hide from our families; sometimes there is just too much to explain. Imperfect to the end, I was never perfect even before this started and now, even though I am myself again, I feel that I can hardly remember who it was that I used to be. And in my most cynical moments I wonder if that is just part of growing up.

 

We work and we live, we both tried to lose ourselves for others, and now, that is our job. I heal - it is the least I can do, and it was something that I acquired practice at. Pansy teaches - she learnt a lot. It strikes me as odd how we can use those hideous times to continue now. When I remember how dead I was, compared to the light that I can see now.

 

And now I am waiting for her to come home, and I haven't seen her all day, and I love these simple feelings. I miss her when she isn't there. And now I hear the door and I get up and put the kettle on, with a flick of my wand, and walk to the door. And now I am not alone, and I give my love a kiss, one full of promise for what is to come, a comforting, well practiced kiss. And now we have a cup of tea together, quietly on the sofa, sitting close, not quite touching, and I am glad it didn't have to be that way.

 

And now, now I am still broken and she is still silent, but now there is a difference. Now we are not alone. Now we are happy.

**Author's Note:**

> On re-reading this I don't completely hate it, which is a positive, I think.
> 
> I can see now how I was writing from my own life. This was beta read by my second girlfriend, who was kind and nurturing and encouraging to me. My first girlfriend had self harmed and tried to commit suicide several times and I felt powerless, the influence of that can be clearly seen here.


End file.
